


Asteism

by Ozymanreis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Antagonism, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mainly a Seblock Fic, Mutual Masturbation, Opposites Attract, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Seblock - Freeform, Seduction, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>n.</i> An ingeniously polite insult. </p>
<p>Sebastian learns to deal with his new flatmate situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asteism

Sebastian Moran was annoyed.

It hadn’t been a big deal. But the sniper had been an unsuspecting frog in a slowly boiling pot, one sadistic consulting criminal controlling the heat.

_He’s only going to be staying over a few nights a week._ His diminutive roommate had said. _Nothing serious. Sleep in your own room if it makes you uncomfortable._ Kicked out of their shared bed for an interloper, but that wasn’t even the _main_ issue. Didn’t matter to Sebastian who Jim chose to _fuck_ , but _this_ went much deeper than a side tumble. 

The root of his chagrin sat at what _was_ he and Jim’s dining room table: one Sherlock Holmes. The lanky detective wasn’t just _sitting_ , oh no, he was _inspecting_ some sample of god-knows-what. With a _microscope_. Some heavy piece of equipment that Holmes had brought from _home_ , and hadn’t left the criminals’ flat in over three _weeks_.

But it wasn’t just the microscope. Other items had begun popping up — ratty dressing gowns strewn about the bathroom, chemical bottles with the most perfunctory of labels, a skull that seemed to function as the detective’s pet, fingers in the icebox — all things that _Jim_ wouldn’t usually consider high-end decor. Meaning they were this new intruder’s.

At what point does an “intruder” stop being so? Clothes had been brought over, he slept there most of the _month_. Worst part was that it seemed Jim’s new obsession appeared built to last. Whether or not Sebastian approved didn’t get taken into account, since he was never asked. In love with Jim or not, the tiny Irishman was a complete arsehole. 

So yes. Sebastian Moran was annoyed. Furious. Silently, secretly fuming as he plotted his payback — which could be nothing short of _perfect_. It ranged anywhere from breaking Jim’s little obsession with a perceived slight, to actually killing pretty-boy. Picked out the spot in the Atlantic to dump the body and everything. 

But ah, as the saying goes: the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Especially with rodents like Sherlock Holmes. 

It was a day like any other, really. Sebastian got up, sighed as he lamented that he was alone (Jim hadn’t invited him into his bed lately, _big shock_ ), lumbered to the bathroom, hosed off, threw on pants and a shirt. 

Heading to the kitchen, _there he was_. Fecking Sherlock, sitting at the table, in a bathrobe, perusing a chemistry textbook, nibbling at a piece of toast like he _belonged_ there. 

Something about the image was just _enraging_. Sebastian stomped over, took the back of hat-boy’s collar between his thumb and index fingers, yanking him back against the thin, wooden chair, the sniper’s burning eyes meeting pale blues.

Sherlock put up no resistance but a raise of his eyebrow, “I knew you were a brute, but I wasn’t expecting violence to be your _immediate_ reaction.” The first words the detective had actually spoken to Sebastian since his apparent move-in. 

Sebastian narrowed his eyes to slits, other hand stabbing up to cup Sherlock’s throat, not yet cutting off his air. “You’ve been _haunting_ my life for two months now, and it’s only getting worse.” 

And oh, did it get _worse_. Sherlock _grinned_ , wetting his lips, “Feeling threatened?”

Threatened. _Threatened_. Moran had survived a _tiger_ , Kali’s-fucking-Kitten’s talons slashing through his torso, stealing most of his skin and left nipple. He didn’t get _threatened_ , especially not by consulting twig-men. “I’ve _killed_ at least sixteen men with these bare hands.” His grip over his throat tightened a fraction, “With a gun? With a knife? The number keeps growing.”

“That’s not nearly as intimidating as it sounded in your head.” Sherlock deadpanned, voice getting hoarse, but no less arrogant, “But excellent attempt.”

_Seriously?_ The man wasn’t even _trying_ to quell his anger. Did he _want_ to die violently? Well, Sebastian was a giver. His hand started tightening, feeling him swallow, nerves finally giving out. 

Sherlock started prying feebly at his grip, growing more desperate, though he could still breathe, just not comfortably. For Sebastian, the sight was like an infinite, cleansing exhale. “Oh yes,” he mused, “The will to survive eventually wins out over pride.”

Then again, pride was stronger for some than others, because with that statement, Curlylocks stopped entirely. His heaving chest evened out, controlled breaths barely enough to keep him conscious — this was a _game_ to him. 

“Your move,” Sherlock rasped, swallowing fruitlessly, hands bracing themselves on the seat on either side of his thighs. 

Sebastian looked as if he’d been slapped, jaw slacking enough to chew his bottom lip. So confident, and he supposed it was for a good reason — _disposing_ of him would upset Jim. Probably hear the man pout about it for at _least_ a year. 

_Plans are ruined, Sebastian._

_I was sizing him up for something greater, Sebastian._

_You took what rightfully belonged to me, Sebastian._

_Sleep on the balcony, Sebastian, I’m turning your room into a wasp emporium._

Really, what would an hour of afterglow be in the face of _that?_ And the detective knew it all too well. Chest, cheeks burning, Sebastian let go.

Despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, Sherlock broke into a coughing fit, gasping into the crook of his elbow. 

“Hot.” Sebastian rolled his eyes, hiding the smallest feeling of triumph. He’d come out for breakfast, but his appetite had quickly waned. 

“F-feeling’s mutual,” Sherlock coughed, wiping his mouth as the attack began to taper off. “In a remote evolutionary way — no denying that while your communication skills lack, you could slay dinner more efficiently than I.”

Sebastian scoffed, unable to believe what he was hearing. Had Jim put him up to this? To _messing_ with him when his inevitable outburst struck? Humoring him would be the best solution, then. “In this hypothetical, you saying you’re a woman?” 

The detective offered a coy smile, “Oh, so you’re at least aware of early hominid dynamics? A charming surprise.” He rubbed his throat slowly, “And, historically speaking, my soft hands are better suited to _weaving_ and _gathering._ ” 

Something about that didn’t sit right. Forced Sebastian to actually _glance_ and check, examine his slender fingers. “Good to know…?” Confusion. _What is his angle?_ He’d already won. 

“Mm…” Sherlock hummed, looking up, a newfound _ferocity_ in the lines around his lips, twitching up, “Thought you should know.” This wasn’t like the tiger. This was a cold, calculating man, with a motive beyond _kill, fuck, eat._ Man. Supposedly the most dangerous game.

In this moment, the ex-colonel couldn’t argue that. 

“ _Why_.” Sebastian spat, raising an eyebrow. 

The detective scoffed, standing up gingerly, “Now, now. Of the two of us, I didn’t take _you_ to be the naive one…” 

As he stood, Sebastian took a step back. Something had changed, and it was too suspect to take at face value. “You’re hitting on me,” he said, almost like a question. 

“Old news, Moran.” He kept stepping forward, slow, deliberate.

“Right. _Why?_ Why is this news at _all?_ ” Sebastian dug in his heels, combat training finally coming back to him. Well, no, this was something older. Youthful. The stubborn streak his father had beaten into him. To this day, the crack of a leather belt inspired feelings of _defiance._

When Sherlock was within choking-reach again, he stopped. Took a long minute to look Moran over, hand under his chin, judging him silently like a prized bull. “You’re looking for a way to punish Jim.” 

Sebastian swallowed, sucking in his lips briefly. 

“Your silence isn’t denial.” Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You’re afraid to say anything at all… because you can’t lie to me. I’m too good for that.”

“Whether or not I want to _punish_ my boss- ”

“No, no.” Sherlock waved a hand. “You _do_. Why else would you have tried to kill me?” 

“Couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you’re a twat, could it?”

“He _is_ your boss,” he continued, barely acknowledging Sebastian had spoken at all, “But he was also supposed to be your _lover_.” He sneered on the word, as if it were filthy, “Loyalty of some variety was part of the deal, wasn’t it?”

Sebastian grimaced, glaring hard, “Mind your own business, Holmes.”

“It _is_ my business.” Sherlock smirked, lightly patting Moran’s bicep, touch lingering, “Because Jim has made it such.”

Sebastian rolled his neck, internally counting to ten, blood already boiling. Had to keep bringing up Jim, didn’t he? Couldn’t even bring himself to rip those stupid soft fingers off him. “Do you want to get strangled again?” _Who the hell do you think you are?_

As if that were the answer the detective was waiting for, he leaned forward, kissing his neck, whispering against the skin, “Don’t be gentle.”

If it were _most_ other days, and Sebastian didn’t even know why _today_ was special, the brat would be duct taped, naked, to the hood of a van. But there was something particularly appealing about right _now_. Some siren power of persuasion, manipulation the bean pole was wielding. 

It’d probably piss Jim off. Touching his stuff. It’d probably earn him a punishment or two, but what could be worse than being ousted already? 

He could hurt Sherlock. Be rough with him. With little complaint. Hell, probably even some begging. It’d been a while since he’d heard anyone beg. Such a sweet sound if done right. And a confident, self-sufficient man like Sherlock? Oh, Moran would bet money he could whine prettily. 

And maybe — and this was a _long_ fucking shot — Sebastian wanted to. Not out of organic lust, but damn, sating curiosity could feel so good. _Well. Shit_. 

It’d been a while, _years_ , since Moran had touched anyone affectionately that wasn’t Jim. His hands traced a slow path up Sherlock’s waist, as if remembering how. Thinner than Jim, the detective’s hip bones jutted out, as did his ribs, even through the cloth. “Emaciation isn’t attractive, Holmes. Didn’t anyone tell you?” 

Sherlock huffed, answer begrudging, “Better than the alternative.”

“There’s a middle ground between ‘stick’ and ‘The Iceman,’” Sebastian said, yanking at the thin belt before the detective could protest, tossing it aside. 

Sherlock’s robe hung open, but Moran wasn’t so much interested in _looking_ so much as getting him exposed. Living skeleton, skinny, and just as corpse-white as Jim, Sebastian realizing they both didn’t spend too much time _sunbathing_ (or leaving the flat when it wasn’t urgent). The detective didn’t seem to mind the scrutiny — shrugging out of the dressing gown without prompting, letting it pool around his ankles. “I haven’t got all day.” He sounded so perfectly _bored,_ yet his actions, his face, his (from what was now plain to see) straining cock, spoke to the contrary. 

Didn’t do _nothing_ for Moran, either. “But I do.” Deadly calm now, a tiger, wound up at the prospect of a kill, stalking silently in the underbrush. _This_ was what he lived for. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrists with one hand, hoisted above his head, smashing him against the wall with a satisfying _thunk_. “And you just volunteered to be _mine_.”  

“I belong to no one.” The bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, the widening of his irises, the sweat he’d begun to break, all told Sebastian that he was winning now. That hat boy had finally realized how much more he’d bitten off than he could chew. 

“ _Wrong_ ,” Sebastian spat, leaning in, a delightful pressure as their middles met (somethingunusual, being nearly the same height, unlike tiny Jim) forcing him to gasp. 

Sherlock had become pliable, sighing in relief, not even bothering to twist his arms in an attempt to free himself. Or argue — the oddest thing, as the man was so fond of arguing. 

“Christ.” Sebastian shook his head at himself. “How long?” Before today. Was this part of his intricate plan? Whatever it was, the sniper had fallen for it, and he didn’t have the wherewithal to be enraged over it. 

“Does it _really_ matter?”

“Yes.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock’s eyes examined the ceiling, fishing for an answer, “Dunno.”

“Wild guess.” 

“I don’t _guess_ ,” Sherlock said coolly, meeting Sebastian’s eye again, “Now. Hurry. Really: I’m losing interest.” 

Whether or not that was true (and it couldn’t be, or else the detective wouldn’t have _stood_ for Jim’s oft-torturously slow pace), it had the effect Sherlock was after, Sebastian emitting a low growl, biting into his neck. They felt skin break, blood seeping against his teeth. 

Neither cared very much. 

 

* * *

 

Ultimately, things were pretty quick. A fight to come first, rutting against each other without grace or skill. 

Still against the wall, the back of Sherlock’s head throbbed from throwing it backward, resting gingerly as he tried to catch his breath. 

Sebastian was slumped against him, face burning, sloppily wiping his sticky hand on the wall (Jim would disapprove, but really, that would be the least of his worries). Sherlock wrinkled his nose, noticing it from the corner of his peripherals, but said nothing, aside from a contented sigh. “Adequate.” 

“Ha,” Sebastian sniggered, readjusting his pants so he was at least semi-decent, noting that Sherlock was in no rush to get dressed himself. “Next time, if you’re relatively fortunate, I’ll take it slow. Give you the full work up.”

“Next time,” Sherlock purred, stretching up his arms above his head, “Next time, I call the shots.”

“That crap may work with Jim,” Sebastian shot him a nasty look, leaning back against the table, swiping up the detective’s unfinished toast, taking an aggressive bite. “But unless you _are_ Jim, I don’t take orders. Period.”

“Well, I- ”

“Oh, good.” Their heads snapped up, hearing an amused lilt from the door, followed by a slow clap, “I was hoping you two would get along.” Jim stood there, hair slightly windswept, cheeks still reddened from the cold outside. Look of utter, menacing delight on his face. 

“What the- ” Sebastian immediately stood up straighter, at attention. Didn’t expect to die this early.

“Welcome back.” Sherlock flashed a toothy grin. “I take it the meeting went well?” 

Jim gave an exaggerated shrug, walking forward, “It was what it was.” 

“ _Wait_.” Sebastian looked between them, whipping his gaze wildly in disbelief. “You- what? _Planned_ this?”

“Mm. No.” Sherlock rocked forward, stepping into Jim’s reach, leaning into his lapel, hugging him around his shoulders. “Bonding with my mate’s mate is just a smart strategy.”

“My darling has brilliant ideas.” Jim began petting his hair, eying Sebastian over his shoulder. “Really, it’s for the best if we all get along… dividing my time between you is so bothersome.” 

“My apologies for _bothering_ you,” Sebastian huffed, polishing off the toast, dusting the crumbs off his palm before stalking back to the kitchen. 

“Oh, and Basher?” Jim called after him, kissing Sherlock’s cheek lightly.

Sebastian inclined his head back, “What?”

“You’re cleaning my walls.” 

 


End file.
